


The Mickeffect

by ElizaPembroke



Series: Prompts & Shorts [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon-typical language, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Episode: s11e03 Frances Francis Franny Frank, Jealous Ian Gallagher, Kevin Ball's Keg Zone, M/M, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28798776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaPembroke/pseuds/ElizaPembroke
Summary: 3 pm, every Tuesday and Thursday. Ian is not pleased.Based on the anonymous prompt: Now that Mickey’s using Kev’s gym he’s been giving guys tips from his prison workouts. Ian is NOT happy about the level of attention he gets when he stops by one day.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Prompts & Shorts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099595
Comments: 24
Kudos: 305





	The Mickeffect

So, the KevFit membership was still a thing. Cool.

And, okay, listen. It wasn’t that Ian minded Mickey going to the gym. Of course, he didn’t. It was just the way this whole thing came to be that Ian wouldn’t call ideal.

Mickey liked to say Ian body-shamed him into working out, and frankly, Ian could see why he would.

They gave each other shit all the time. Laughed about hairy toes, prodded at each other’s saggy parts. And when they were both in the right headspace, it was just that—provoking banter. But Mickey, being the sensitive creature that he was, sometimes took it too close to heart.

And yeah, maybe Ian nagged him a few too many times about staying healthy after the lockdown started when Mickey’s only method of balancing out his liquid beer diet was riding Ian’s dick. But by then, it felt like they’d been occupying the same 1x1 bedroom for _years_ , so it wasn’t exactly Ian’s fault.

If Mickey decided to go about it this way, great. Seriously. It only meant that Ian didn’t need to worry about getting his knuckles bruised anytime soon. And while he secretly mourned the loss of Mickey’s soft belly, he wasn’t going to complain. Not when Mickey looked the way he did now.

The thought was on Ian’s mind again that morning while he brushed his teeth over the bathroom sink, using the time on his hands to watch his husband in the mirror as he showered.

The curtain was only partially closed, just enough so that Mickey wasn’t splashing water around the tub while still leaving space for Ian to see him.

And boy, did he see him.

His broad shoulders. His arms stretching as he ran his hands through his wet hair. The dimples on his back. The marks Ian left on his ass when they fucked earlier.

When Mickey turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, Ian found himself drawn to the little water droplets sliding over the _Ian Galager_ tattoo and down his pecs, his abs, the V shape of his hips, and into his pubes.

Ian only realized he entirely forgot to move the toothbrush in his mouth when one corner of Mickey’s mouth curled into a teasing smirk.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey asked, sounding smug as hell as he reached for his towel.

“Definitely not your ugly mug.”

Coming out all muffled, Ian’s words lost some of their intended edges. He angled himself back to the sink and spat.

“You have the tits of a 12-year-old girl,” he added quickly like there was a five-second rule for when you could still save your diss. He looked up just in time to see Mickey scrunch his face in mild outrage.

“Fuck off, these are C cups at least.”

“Like you're such an expert on those.”

Ian let out a low yelp as Mickey unexpectedly smacked his back, right around where his Monica tattoo was.

“Well, they're not your mom's tits, that's for sure,” Mickey noted through a sneer.

He then went back to drying himself, and Ian allowed himself to openly gawk at his slightly misty reflection again.

Several mechanical strokes of his toothbrush later, the thought came back, clouding his mind with an ugly feeling.

The intuitive thing would be to push it back and pretend like everything was okay, but they were married now and told each other shit, right? He had to say something.

“Going to the gym again today?” Ian asked eventually, trying to come off as noncommittal as he could with his mouth full and his eyes trained on the drain.

Obviously, he didn’t mind getting horny over his buff husband. No, the actual reason Ian was so bothered about all this was that other people now had free reigns to get horny over him as well.

You see, since Mickey started paying Kev’s gym his regular visits, he’d managed to attract a flock of followers. Fucking _fans_.

That, at least, was what Ian called them. Mickey, of course, didn’t see it like that. For him, they were _paying customers_.

“It’s easy money, man. And the crowd’s gettin’ bigger and bigger every week.” Mickey looked pleased as he wrapped the towel around his hips. “Anyway, it’s not like I have to do much. Most of the time, I just do my thing, and the bunch of ‘em stare at my ass.”

Ian bent forward and spat.

“So basically, they pay to jerk off your ego,” he pointed out, slumping his shoulders to show how totally unimpressed he was by that notion.

“’Xactly. And maybe something else, too.”

Mickey’s cackle followed him out into the hallway as he left Ian alone in the bathroom.

\---

It was clearly a joke. A nasty joke that was supposed to leave a sting, but there was absolutely no need for Ian to worry. And he kept telling himself that all day—right until the moment he entered the badly-lit backroom of the Alibi and found himself in the company of a pack of Northsiders in designer label gym clothes.

Before he could spot Mickey anywhere among them, some blond guy in what seemed like an uncomfortably too tight a tank top came to his side.

„Looks like we have a newcomer in our midst.” The guy clicked his tongue, giving Ian an blatant once-over. “You here for the Mickeffect?”

„The what?“

„The Mickeffect. That’s what we call this class. Unofficially, of course, because the class is _sorta kinda_ unofficial, too.” At that, he sniggered, which Ian immediately found annoying. “3 pm, every Tuesday and Thursday. You from the Facebook group?”

Ian resisted the urge to scoff. “Uh, no.”

“Just lucky coincidence, then? Well, since you’re already here, I think you’re gonna enjoy yourself. The dude who leads this class is ex-con, so he knows all the right ways to abuse the body if you know what I mean.”

Clenching his fists inside the pockets of his sweatpants, Ian smiled politely and nodded. He wasn’t going to give this blond douchebag the satisfaction and punch him in the face. Not yet, at least.

“Hot as hell, too. And man, that ass. Simply _de_ -licious. The whole thing actually only went off after I posted a video of him doing squats. Got 50k views in a day, a whole article on PinkNews a week later. The title was _The Ex-con Hunk Who Makes Chicagoans Sweat Like Crazy – And Then Tells Them Off_. Funny.”

The guy shrugged in this wannabe innocent _you know how it is_ way. Ian was relieved to realize he really, really didn’t.

“We get new people all the time, but the return rate is terrible,” Blond Douchebag continued, amazingly. “Most of the boys come for Mickey but then leave with someone else. Maybe you’ll get lucky here, too.”

“I’m married,“ Ian retorted, hoping it would be enough to make him stop talking.

But Blond Douchebag didn’t even blink. “Yeah, so are some of the guys here. And _he_ is, too, but I don’t think he’s the typa guy who would be deterred by that.“

Careful there, pal, Ian thought _._ Or you might find your pretty face landing very unprettily on a beer keg.

“Oh, hey!“

The familiar voice came out of nowhere, prematurely ending Ian’s plans to show this complete dickwad the practical meaning of the word concussion.

His head snapped to his right where Mickey was now standing, his eyes carefully roaming over Ian. There was a softness in them for a moment before his whole face morphed into a smirk.

„Came to learn something from the expert?” he teased.

Ian clenched his jaw. “Something like that.”

As Mickey moved past them, Blond Douchebag gave Ian a sly wink.

\---

Ian wasn’t sure what kind of problems the snooty Northsiders could possibly be dealing with in their private lives, but this whole thing seemed to have almost therapeutical effects on them.

Mickey called them Ansel Elgort (not a compliment) or White Kanye West (also not a compliment) while he listened to their crap, and they giggled like teenage girls. He yelled at them for being pussies, and they were only a touch away from popping a boner. It made zero fucking sense.

And Mickey, well. The dickhead was so clearly giving them an upgraded version to his usual performance. Biting his bottom lip all the time. Flexing his muscles a little too hard. Grabbing everyone’s attention by letting out these exaggerated grunts.

Ian officially reached his bullshit limit when Mickey finished off a set of pull-ups and promptly took his shirt off to wipe his face. The way everything around him seemed to come to a stop for a hot minute had Ian’s eyes rolling.

It was totally ridiculous. Were these guys really so desperate?

Getting a better grip on the skipping rope he was using, Ian caught Mickey watching him, his brows arched, the dare behind them so plain and obvious. 

And yeah, _okay, asshole_. Two could play this game.

“You know what,” Ian started out loud so everyone could hear him. He let the rope fall to his feet and instead tugged his own shirt off. “We did things a little differently in the army.”

His grin widened when he heard one of the guys audibly gulp.

\---

“Fifty!”

“One hundred!”

“Fuck off, you can’t do _one hundred push-ups_ in one go.”

“With one hand behind my back.”

Maybe kneeling on the feet of two wheezing guys doing sit-ups wasn’t the best time to have a whispered shouting match with your husband, but honestly, Ian couldn’t give two shits. Mickey was seriously pissing him off—and like hell was he going to let him win. Even if it was just this one petty argument.

“You need stamina when you’re the top. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to do all the fucking work while _the bottom_ just lies there.”

“Oh, oh, _please_! Tell us more about your workouts in the army. Was this before or after you tried to run away from there by stealing a damn helicopter?”

They were suddenly aware that their periphery vision got surprisingly still. Almost in tandem, they looked down at the alarmed expressions of their trainees.

“Did I fuckin’ tell you to stop, Asthma Boy?” Mickey grumbled at his guy. “Gimme three more sets of twenty!”

\---

Blond Douchebag must have taken a genuine liking to him because he later offered to cover Ian as he pounded into the punching bag. And while he technically did hold onto the punching bag, his eyes were always on Mickey.

“Wonder who Ian is,” he mused as he observed Mickey’s topless form. “Think it’s the husband? Probably doesn’t even realize what a hot piece of ass he’s got at home.”

Too easy. It would be entirely too easy to pretend Ian’s hand slipped and he hit him by mistake, and he wasn’t going to stoop that low. He wasn’t.

Taking in a deep breath, Ian started punching harder.

He wasn’t.

“Everything okay here?”

Mickey had his shirt tucked under the elastic band of his pants, and from the corner of his eyes, Ian couldn’t help but notice the light sheen of sweat that covered his face and upper body. He wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, more than okay,” Blond Douchebag practically purred.

Punch. Punch. Punch.

“Whoa, Ian, hey.” Mickey sounded worried. “Take it easy, man.”

And fucking _finally_ , that seemed to have done the job. Because Blond Douchebag wasn’t looking at Mickey anymore, he was looking back at Ian, and his bravado was long gone. Now, there was childlike fear in his stance, and Ian almost pitied him.

“Oh shit. You’re Ian,” he managed before the next punch landed right into his face, knocking him down on the floor.

Panting, Ian stood over him as he clutched his bleeding nose.

“Yes, I’m Ian,” he snarled at him. “And his ass is all mine.”

Someone gripped his arm then.

“Okay, the show’s over, Muhammad Ali. Better get out of here,” Mickey muttered as he pushed Ian across the gym, past all the Northside wimps who seemed too tired to do anything other than being in shock. “Come on. Ian, come the fuck on!”

From the Alibi, they ran. Sprinted along the streets and over honking cars, zig-zagged through commuters, and flipped off those who wolf-whistled at their half-naked bodies. They ran until they ended up in a dirty alley with no one else in sight, their sides on fire, and broke into a fit of laughter.

Ian only realized Mickey brought his shirt when he used it to slap his chest.

“Jealous fucker.”

“Shut the fuck up. Wasn’t jealous.”

But Mickey was still wearing that suggestive _whatcha gonna do now_ smirk, and his lips were shiny from being licked over just a second ago, and so the next thing Ian knew, he was pushing him against a wall and kissing him thoroughly.

His hands went to Mickey’s ass, lifting him up just slightly as his fingers dug in, and Ian pulled back to let out a moan.

“Mm, I fuckin’ love your ass.”

Mickey groaned. “Jesus Christ, please don’t tell me all of this was because of my ass.”

Leaning down again, Ian murmured into his mouth: “Isn’t it always?”


End file.
